The days bled into each other in an unrelenting cycle. Victor had no mentor, no guidance, and no real path forward—just the burning desire to make something of himself. Morning after morning, he dragged himself up from the floor that passed for his bed and hit the streets.
There was no time for weakness, no room for doubt. He couldn't afford it. Not when the entering of Forsaken World loomed just a few months in the future, filled with dangers that would crush him without a second thought if he didn't improve.
He stepped into the streets each day with purpose, though sometimes the hunger gnawed at him so deeply that it slowed his progress. Meals were scarce, and he was forced to ration what little money he had. But Victor didn't dwell on his lack of funds. Survival was his first priority, and that meant pushing his body past its limits—no matter the cost.
His training began with running. Ashhaven was a gigantic city housing millions of people. The city has a chaotic layout, and Victor made it his personal track. He sprinted through crowded markets, public parks and streets, pushing himself until his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead.
Victor's training route took him to some of the most chaotic parts of the city. The narrow alleyways, the ramshackle buildings, the overcrowded parks—all of them became part of his track. He sprinted through them, zigzagging and dodging obstacles, always pushing himself to go faster, to move quicker. The goal wasn't just to build stamina; it was to train his reflexes, to sharpen them until they were second nature.
In his free time he tried out shadowboxing. It was quite boring, but with a target in sight there was no stopping. He needs to reach that 1.0 mark with at least 1 stat.
For practical experience Victor found a small, dingy martial arts gym near his home. The sign above the door is faded, and the smell of sweat fills the air. It's clear that this isn't the amazing dojo with an hidden invincible teacher he's dreamed of, but it's all he can afford.
The martial arts trainer was an old, retired evolver whose stats had long since declined, leaving him a shadow of his former self. But even with diminished abilities, it didn't take much effort for him to beat unevolved people His movements were sharp and precise, and his strength seemed effortless, a reminder of the advantages evolvers retained even in their last years.
During sparring lessons, the old man often surprised his students with bursts of speed and power that bordered on supernatural. A jab from him, even when pulling his punches, would leave Victor's arms trembling from the impact. His reflexes were almost unnerving—he could anticipate attacks as if reading his opponent's mind, dodging with the fluid grace of someone who had fought countless battles. Every punch, every kick, was a reminder that strength wasn't just about power—it was about precision, timing, and experience.
Victor absorbed every lesson, trying to mimic the old man's movements, analyzing his every strike. He knew it wasn't enough to simply copy them; he had to understand them, internalize them until they became a part of him.
Rumors spread from the older students about his past. Some said he was once a champion boxer in another city, back when the world was still normal and portals hadn't yet opended. He had ruled the ring with skill, power, and an indomitable will. But when the portals appeared and brought Evolvers to the forefront of combat sports, his accomplishments had quickly become useless and he was forgotten. Who cared about a human boxer when Evolvers could perform feats that were only in comic before?
Now, in this dusty, underfunded gym, he passed on fragments of his experience to anyone willing to pay. He never spoke a word, but his experience couldn't be ignored.
Every time he sparred with the old man, Victor felt the stark divide between them—the speed, the power, the sheer dominance of an Evolver, even one past his prime. Yet, it didn't discourage him. If anything, it mad him more motivated. He analyzed every sparring session, every move the old man made, and worked tirelessly to close the gap, knowing that one day, these lessons might save his life.
For now, Victor focused on absorbing all he could from the trainer's knowledge, storing it away for the battles he knew awaited him in the Forsaken World.
His afternoons were spent practising with the dagger, going through the motions over and over until his fingers cramped. The routine was endless, but necessary. He knew he wasn't strong enough to overpower any experienced evolver outright; his best chance was to be faster, smarter, and more precise while using the surroundings to his advantage.
At night, his focus shifted to his Vitality. Wearing his armor, he ran drills designed to tax his endurance—carrying weights, scaling walls, and practicing evasion techniques. His body protested with every movement, but he pushed through the fatigue, knowing that each step brought him closer to the elusive 1.0 mark.
Through it all, the weight of his dwindling funds loomed over him. With every meal purchased and every coin spent, the pile of cash shrank further. But Victor had no regrets. Every sacrifice was an investment in the future he was determined to claim. He'd live on scraps if it meant being ready when the time came. It is better to be ready than have a few coins in your pocket. The forsaken worlds inhabitants were no joke after-all. If you're unlucky enough to encounter a stronger creature, it will be a struggle to even escape.
Two weeks into his training, as he lay on his mattress catching his breath after a brutal day. Victor was quite hungry and planned to go out to buy some food.
Victor glanced at the small watch on his wrist, the faint glow of the screen illuminating his tired face. The stats he had been relentlessly working to improve were displayed in front of him:
Strength: 0.85
Reflex: 0.97
Vitality: 0.75
Soul power: unavailable
The numbers were slowly climbing, but not fast enough. He needed more. He couldn't afford to wait any longer. His eyes lingered on the vitality stat—he knew it was lagging behind, but he was already planning his next move. Each training session was pushing him closer to the threshold.
As hunger gnawed at his stomach, he debated whether he should go out to eat now or tomorrow in the morning. After making his mind his hand moved instinctively to the hidden compartment beside his bed, where he stored what little money he had left. Suddenly his fingertips brushed against the rough texture of worn leather, and for a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Then it hit him—the ledger.
The memory flooded back like a wave, unbidden yet vivid. That small, unassuming book he had taken from the Darrow mansion, overshadowed at the time by the adrenaline of the heist and the rush of escaping with his life. Forgotten amidst the chaos of survival and the rigors of training, it now seemed to hum with untapped potential.
Victor sat up, heart suddenly pounding, the hunger momentarily forgotten.
Victor's gaze drifted to his hidden compartment. Inside was most of his cash and the ledger that he had stolen from the Darrow family.
The necklace was long gone, sold to fund his current journey, but he couldn't help but be curious what was on the ledger. Was it some kind of trade secrets, maybe a dark secret or was it just empty.
Victor bolted upright, heart pounding. In the chaos of the heist, he'd grabbed whatever he could carry, barely giving the small, book a second glance. The necklace had been his priority. It was valuable and easy to sell.
Pulling the book from the bottom of the hidden compartment, he ran his fingers over the cover. It was plain and worn, its edges frayed from years of handling. There was a faint scent of old paper in the air as he opened it, flipping through the pages with growing curiosity.
He expected numbers—entries of trades, debts, or other mundane records. Instead, the pages were filled with dense diagrams, strange symbols, and pictures. The handwriting was meticulous, the illustrations intricate, and despite his lack of understanding, he could feel the importance radiating from the text.
He could feel the importance radiating from the text—something beyond mere bookkeeping, beyond financial records. This was something... more.
As his eyes skimmed the pages, a sense of urgency began to build within him. He couldn't simply ignore this. Whatever was contained in this ledger, it had meaning. It had value. It could change everything. But first, he had to understand it.
One word caught his eye, repeated across several pages in bold strokes: Titan's Conditioning.
Victor frowned, his mind racing. The name meant nothing to him, but it was clear that whoever owned this ledger had valued it immensely. He turned the pages faster now, searching for anything that could explain what this book was about. This wasn't just a ledger. It was something far more complex—and far more dangerous.
Then, suddenly, he froze.
"Combat technique."